


no, love don't come easy

by holtzmanns



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Bedsharing, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, dxp tour, mostly fluff ish, not actual sleepwalking no matter how much vanessa says it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzmanns/pseuds/holtzmanns
Summary: “Move over.” Jose repeats it, insistent. As if the edge in his voice is a knife that can chip away at Brock’s heart into agreeing with him.“Go back to sleep.” Brock wants to follow his own words. Wishes he could. He doesn’t want to deal with the way that Jose immediately makes his brain forget how to function, make rational decisions.Based from a prompt from writ to write about bedsharing on the DXP tour bus. Title from Intro by Khalid.





	no, love don't come easy

**Author's Note:**

> In which holtzmanns sees real life tour occurrences, happily ignores them, and writes fic instead. Thank you writ, sharer of my single braincell, for the prompt and for betaing.

** _Say you can't deal with me no more_ **

** _Just say you don't want me_ **

“The hell?”

It’s still dark when Brock blinks the sleep from his eyes, squints to see who the fuck has roused him from his rest which had been so hard to come by in the first place. Despite his aching muscles and tendons from throwing himself into the splits and handstands on stage every night, he hasn’t been sleeping. Not well, at least.

It’s been especially difficult tonight, too. Twisting and turning in his bunk on the tour bus that feels just a little too small, too uncomfortable for his lanky frame. Like it was never meant to fit someone like him in the first place. Tonight he’s had to bring his knees in closer, duck his head to fit, to try to earn some semblance of sleep before yet another day of travel and a show. 

Not that it’s even mattered, considering that he’s awake. Again. 

“Move over.” The voice, gravelly and sleep laden as it is, isn’t hard to recognize. Neither are the hints of cologne that haven’t faded from the day, a scent that makes Brock think of soft smiles and late nights and stolen moments and...jealousy. And arguments, and hurtful words that neither of them have really attempted to take back since. 

It’s complicated. 

“What?” He’s feeling a bit slow on the uptake, his brain lagging in a way that he can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or the proximity of the man in front of him. The two factors are intertwined most of the time.

“Move over.” Jose repeats it, insistent. As if the edge in his voice is a knife that can chip away at Brock’s heart into agreeing with him. 

“Go back to sleep.” Brock wants to follow his own words. Wishes he could. He doesn’t want to deal with the way that Jose immediately makes his brain forget how to function, make rational decisions.

“Wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what?” 

“Sleeping.” Jose sounds as tired as Brock feels, like the exhaustion has seeped into his soul, staining it with a weariness that no time off will be able to strip away.

“Me neither now, thanks to you.” As if Brock hasn’t been tossing and turning all night, anyway. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to after this either. 

“Please?” Jose’s voice is pleading, softer. A voice that is so rare to Brock’s ears, one that he hasn’t heard in a long time. One which is better saved for usage between the sheets or when Jose is feeling so soft and loving that he can’t help but turn all delicate. 

_ Was _ feeling soft. Not is. Not anymore.

Doesn’t change the effect that Jose’s voice has on him, though. Something that Jose probably knows will undoubtedly work in his favour.

Hell. Even if he sends Jose away back to his bunk, he’s just going to be thinking of him. Ruminating. Hating it. 

He’s halfway to fucking up already. May as well complete the equation with the one variable that he can never solve for on his own. 

“Fine.” Brock shifts over then and nearly loses his balance when the bus hits a pothole. He pushes himself up close to the wall, pats the space he’s just made on the mattress. “Can you even fit?”

“Why you always underestimating me?” Jose’s climbing in before he’s even finished his retort, shuffling until he’s pressed his back against Brock’s chest. He grabs Brock’s hand, pulls it around his waist, boxes himself in.

Awful presumptuous. Not that Brock makes any effort to pull away. 

Because it feels fucking _ nice. _Feels right, feels familiar, feels reminiscent in a way that Brock hasn’t felt in ages. Because they never stick around after sex anymore, most of the time one of them awkwardly pulling clothes on and leaving as soon as possible before they have to talk about what the fuck they’re doing, God forbid. 

He hasn’t held Jose like this in a long time. He fits in his arms like a missing gear, enough to pull the pieces of his heart back together to start functioning properly again. He smells like anger and pain but also smells like home. Like softness. Like comfort. 

Brock can’t help but bury his face in Jose’s shoulder and his neck, feeling the warmth that radiates from his skin and wondering how the fuck he hasn’t been burnt already. His eyes scrunch tighter in tandem with the arms around Jose’s waist, making him shift in his arms, nuzzle in closer. 

He’s so fucked. They’re so fucked.

It makes him mad, almost, how easily he finds himself drifting off. He wants to fight it out of spite and try to stay up, because he does not need anyone else to complete him. To make him function like a person. He can do that by himself - always has. 

Except this feels so much better. He’s not clutching empty space, folding in on himself and attempting to be whole when all he feels is empty. No, now he feels present, feels the way that his breathing is syncing up with Jose’s and getting deeper and deeper and it’s just not fair.

It’s a lot harder to avoid thoughts about Jose’s smile and the way that his hands always fit so perfectly with Brock’s during times like this, when Brock’s enveloped his small frame in a grasp, one that is tighter than it should be. As if Brock is afraid to lose him. Because he’s not. 

The kiss that he places against Jose’s shoulder blade before succumbing to sleep is just an old habit that hasn’t died. One that feels too natural, too right. Not wrong enough to twist his gut in the way that it should. 

Jose’s gone from the bunk when Brock wakes up and opens his eyes. Brock can hear his voice reverberating from the back of the bus, loud and bickering with Morgan over what they should have for breakfast. 

Brock’s pillow still smells like him. 

They don’t talk about it. Jose continues to hit him with light barbs, ones that he laughs off but that leave scratches on his arms that come close to breaking the skin. Brock volleys them right back, because making Jose speechless with light teasing is his second favourite way of getting him to shut up.

During the show that night Jose is more touchy, more daring. Going for his hand. Wrapping an arm around his waist. Brock wants to ignore how perfectly Jose fits within the crook of his arm, because it’s not relevant to anything. 

Brock doesn’t flirt back with any guys at the club they go to after the show that night, nursing his cider at the bar. He’s too tired to try, must be it. He needs nights off sometimes. 

Jose does. Keeps shooting him glances every so often, as if daring him to do something. Try something. 

Brock doesn’t give in to his urge to pull Jose out of the club, yank his shorts low on his thighs in the side alleyway no matter how much Jose wants him to. It never feels right when it’s like this, not like how it used to feel between them. It’s not going to solve any problems, something he’s learned the hard way with them. 

He orders another drink instead.

But then when they get back to the bus Brock can’t help but grab at Jose’s waist before he walks past him to his own bunk, stopping him in his tracks before he can take another step. 

“What, bitch?” Jose looks annoyed. Unsatisfied. Brock, Captain Obvious, can’t help but think it has something to do with him.

“Come on.” He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, really. It’s stupid. Could turn into a habit, a dangerous habit that could send them down a rabbit hole that neither of them will be able to return from.

But last night was the best sleep that he’s had in weeks. Fucking weeks.

Jose rolls his eyes in faux bravado and coolness, but doesn’t argue. Lets Brooke pull him in close, pliant in his arms. Puts his hand on Brock’s forearm like it belongs there.

It becomes a pattern. One that the other girls begin to notice, when Jose doesn’t roll out of his usual bottom bunk closest to the kitchen but instead from Brock’s middle bunk near the front of the bus. Nina just sighs when Brock shrugs at her. She’s given up, Brock can’t blame her for it. He’s tired of himself and his decisions, too. 

But the days feel lighter, more manageable. He’s able to stay asleep for most of the night without tossing and turning now, with only a slight chance that it’s because of the person wrapped in his arms who feels like his own personal space heater, grounding him back to reality like a deep pressure. 

The bags under Jose’s eyes lessen, too. He’s still smiling away like he always does but the smiles reach his eyes now. He becomes bolder with Brock, grabbing his hand on stage and playing it up for the crowd but it doesn’t matter because Brock likes putting his arm around Jose, too. As much as he shouldn’t. 

Though Brock reasons that it’s okay sometimes to tell his subconscious to fuck off, when the tour is so short and ending in a week and a half and it’s not like this is forever, anyway. They’ll be heading to separate flights soon enough, taking them to different cities where the thorns in his heart will tug whenever Jose pops up on his Instagram. But that’s a problem for future Brock. Not him right now. 

Brock doesn’t need anyone else. But, perhaps, having Jose in his arms right now, in this moment, breathing in his cologne and pressing kisses to his back is okay. 

More than okay. 

For now. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at @plastiquetiaras on tumblr!


End file.
